Arriving Home

The cobbled path, my path to home,
the pitter-pat of rain on stone,
the knotted door, the worn-out brass,
the loggy thump, the denting rasp.

The soggy mat, inside at last,
the beaten windows, rain on glass,
the water boiled, the gentle fire,
the padded chair will host retire.

The mâchéd news, words laced with rain;
at least the sport has gone unscathed.
The Grandfather’s Grandfather’s Grandfather’s clock;
past resonates through tick n’ tock.

And so I give you my evening scene:
a man, his house n’ a cup of tea.
The steamy sweetness warms my heart,
and, as evening fades, my thoughts depart.

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The wordsmith’s grindstone

Moleskine in palm;
its crude appearance wears timelessly,
and yet but eighteen years have worn creases in mine.

Patternless cover;
the simplicity disguises the complexity within,
for true beauty lies beneath the skin.

L’Plume in hand;
its wordy purpose so full of blotted potential,
like the creative finger I never had.

Emerald-green,
gold-nibbed and poised with majesty.
A ceremonial gesture, chosen with care.

Poet in thought.
Words come and go, abundantly so,
but few seem worthy of the page.

And so the naked canvas;
to be purchased by fools who wish to admire
something more thoughtless than they.

Dare to ponder

In thought of you,
I quiver.
These shaky hands,
excited shivers.
Dreams are sweet,
but you are sweeter.
Day is bright,
but night is clearer.

In thought of you,
I wonder.
These fantasies
I dare to ponder.
Love is fair,
but war is fairer.
Loyalty
is somewhat rarer.

In thought of you,
I can’t decide
if this is wrong
when wrong’s so right.
Just for today,
won’t you be mine?
My sweet, illicit
valentine.

English Summer

To me, love’s like an English summer,
with teasing spells of loving sun
and only then to, swiftly so,
fall beneath the growing shadow.

Then, from the dismal pelt of rain
that not so much as lightning yields,
comes forth a rookie, eyes ablaze.
But pride won’t dam the falling waves.

And soon cats hiss, dogs bark and howl
as all descend toward the ground
to douse and drown the rookie’s flame.
That torch he held was held in vain.

The monotone of summer rain
makes day by day the same mundane.
Before we know it, swiftly so,
we’re left knee deep in winter’s snow.

Yet come the darkness, we’ll remember
the beauty of our English summer.
Shadows pass, as lovers will,
‘tis but the sun that’s loyal still.